As fate would have it, four months after his marriage to Jodh Bai and just before his marriage to Sahib Jamal, Man Bai had become pregnant with Khusrau — the first of the next generation of the Moghul dynasty. The status that conferred should satisfy Man Bai, but if it didn’t there was nothing he could do and he would not allow it to worry him — though it did, particularly the thought that their son might inherit some of her self-centred lack of control.
Akbar’s deep voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Let us now go to feast the birth of this new prince. May he and the dynasty prosper.’
As he took his place at the feast, Salim offered up a silent prayer for his own prosperity. If he became the next Moghul emperor, what might he not be able to do for his sons?
Part V
Chapter 20
Once again, more than three years after his first journey there, Salim was sitting in an elephant howdah as the great beast plodded its way towards Kashmir. This time, though, the circumstances were very different. Their long journey was aimed at peace and pleasure, not war and conquest. Both he and his father had fallen in love with the beauty of Kashmir, its peaceful valleys, glistening lakes and flower-strewn meadows, and above all the respite it provided from the angry summer sun of the plains. The dozen elephants preceding his carried not warriors but members of his haram. On the nearest was Man Bai with the two-year-old Khusrau. On the next two were Sahib Jamal with Parvez, the son she had given birth to three months earlier, and then Jodh Bai. Beyond them, further towards the front of the column, were the elephants bearing his father’s haram. His mother was not among them, having scorned the cool of the mountains for the sun of her native lands, but his grandmother Hamida was and Salim was glad. Despite his marriages, she was still one of his closest confidantes.
Akbar was, as usual, riding at the very front of the column. Though Salim had done everything his father had asked, acquiescing in all his marriage plans for him, the closeness he had felt to Akbar after the victory over the Sultan of Kashmir had gradually ebbed. He had hoped that fathering Akbar’s first grandson might have made Akbar warm towards him as well as to his grandson. To Salim’s continuing frustration and disappointment, his father still seemed too preoccupied with the expansion of his empire and its smooth running, as well as with his philosophical musings, to be prepared to spend much time with his eldest son or to involve him in affairs of state. He was almost always closeted with Abul Fazl who, Salim was sure, used his smooth, flatterer’s tongue to his detriment. Tasks and appointments which might have been given to Salim to prepare him to rule one day had, instead, been given to friends of Abul Fazl, who was even now sharing his father’s howdah. Some court rumours claimed that he had grown fat on the bribes he had received for recommending his friends, though others said that his corpulence was solely accounted for by his excessive appetite. Salim had heard Abul Fazl’s khutmagar — his butler — boasting to one of his own servants that Abul Fazl consumed thirty pounds of food a day and even then occasionally asked for a nocturnal snack.
Salim pushed thoughts of his father and Abul Fazl from his mind as Suleiman Beg, who was riding with him, adjusted the hangings around the howdah to keep out the rain now being driven almost horizontally by the strong north wind. If the purpose of this second journey to Kashmir was different from the first, so too was the spring weather, at least so far. It had scarcely stopped raining since they had entered the series of mountain defiles and passes. The heads of the purple rhododendrons on the hillsides were bowed low by the weight of raindrops. As Salim looked out of his howdah, he could see water streaming down some overhanging cliffs to the right before splashing into the puddles on the muddy, narrow road twisting inexorably upwards towards Kashmir. On the left-hand side of the road, the land dropped almost sheer fifty feet to the jade-green waters of the river below which, fed by snow melt as well as rainwater, was flowing fast down to the plains.
‘The river level seems to rise every time I look at it,’ said Suleiman Beg.
‘Yes. It’ll be hard for those who’ve gone ahead to locate a camp site and erect the tents to find somewhere free from bogs and lying water.’
Suddenly, Salim heard a crash, followed by a low rumble and then agonised human cries from round the sharp bend in the road that lay just ahead. ‘What was that? Not an attack, surely.’
‘No, it was a landslide, I think.’ Suleiman Beg stood and gestured down into the ravine.
Salim followed his milk-brother’s pointing arm. Mud and stones seemed to have partially blocked the river, which was already backing up. Wasn’t that the body of an elephant he could see? ‘Mahout, make the elephant kneel!’ he ordered. Even before the beast had settled fully on to its knees, both Salim and Suleiman Beg had jumped to the ground and were running forward, splashing through the wet yellow mud to see what had happened.
Rounding the bend, Salim was deeply relieved to see that all the elephants carrying his wives and his young sons were safe on the road. However, the problem was immediately apparent. Part of the rock overhang had collapsed, taking about thirty feet of the road with it as rocks and mud slid down into the river below. The body of one elephant protruded from beneath the landslide; a second lay half in and half out of the river, the water washing over it turning red with the beast’s blood. Its gilded howdah lay nearby, smashed on some jagged rocks sticking out of the river. Pushing his way through those who were gathering round the site of the slide and looking down, Salim asked, ‘Who was riding on these elephants?’
‘Some of your grandmother’s waiting-women,’ one onlooker replied.
‘I regret to say one of them was your old nursemaid, Zubaida. Your grandmother thought the cool mountain air would be good for her,’ added a thin grizzled old man as, almost audibly creaking, he raised himself from where he had been lying peering over the very edge. Despite the mud which soaked his clothes and was splashed across his face and white beard, Salim recognised his grandmother’s steward. ‘I think I was able to see where her howdah landed.’
‘Do you mean the one splintered by those rocks at the river’s edge?’
‘No, that contained four other of your grandmother’s servants. I fear they are all dead. I myself saw one of their bodies washed away by the torrent, face down and arms spread. Zubaida’s howdah seems to have been torn from her elephant early in its fall. I thought I could see it caught behind some trees on a ledge about three-quarters of the way down, but more of the mud was slipping away and my eyes are no longer good. .’
‘Hold my belt, Suleiman Beg,’ ordered Salim as he flung himself on the ground. Oblivious of the cold wet mud soaking through his fine garments, he moved cautiously forward, propelling himself on his elbows to a point where his head and shoulders were overlooking the slide. Yes, the steward was right. The howdah had fallen away from the main landslip as the straps securing it to the elephant had burst. It had indeed caught against some scrubby trees on a ledge. But where were the occupants? The debris from the mudslide blocked his view.
‘Hold on tight to me, Suleiman Beg. I’ll see if I can get a better look.’ As Salim edged further forward, he heard a faint cry from below. Someone was alive. What was left of the sodden overhang might give way at any moment. If those who had fallen into the ravine were to be rescued, he must act quickly. At first it looked hopeless. No one could climb down there. But then he thought he could make out a route that might just be possible. ‘Bring me a rope — one of those used to pull bogged-down carts from the mud. I must try to get down there.’